CHAPTER I
THE
FENCHURCH STREET MYSTERYThe
man in the corner pushed aside his glass, and leant across the
table."Mysteries!"
he commented. "There is no such thing as a mystery in connection
with any crime, provided intelligence is brought to bear upon its
investigation."Very
much astonished Polly Burton looked over the top of her newspaper,
and fixed a pair of very severe, coldly inquiring brown eyes upon
him.She
had disapproved of the man from the instant when he shuffled across
the shop and sat down opposite to her, at the same marble-topped
table which already held her large coffee (3d.), her roll and
butter
(2d.), and plate of tongue (6d.).Now
this particular corner, this very same table, that special view of
the magnificent marble hall—known as the Norfolk Street branch of
the Aërated Bread Company's depôts—were Polly's own corner,
table, and view. Here she had partaken of eleven pennyworth of
luncheon and one pennyworth of daily information ever since that
glorious never-to-be-forgotten day when she was enrolled on the
staff
of the Evening
Observer (we'll
call it that, if you please), and became a member of that
illustrious
and world-famed organization known as the British Press.She
was a personality, was Miss Burton of the
Evening Observer.
Her cards were printed thus:She
had interviewed Miss Ellen Terry and the Bishop of Madagascar, Mr.
Seymour Hicks and the Chief Commissioner of Police. She had been
present at the last Marlborough House garden party—in the
cloak-room, that is to say, where she caught sight of Lady
Thingummy's hat, Miss What-you-may-call's sunshade, and of various
other things modistical or fashionable, all of which were duly
described under the heading "Royalty and Dress" in the
early afternoon edition of the
Evening Observer.(The
article itself is signed M.J.B., and is to be found in the files of
that leading halfpennyworth.)For
these reasons—and for various others, too—Polly felt irate with
the man in the corner, and told him so with her eyes, as plainly as
any pair of brown eyes can speak.She
had been reading an article in the
Daily Telegraph.
The article was palpitatingly interesting. Had Polly been
commenting
audibly upon it? Certain it is that the man over there had spoken
in
direct answer to her thoughts.She
looked at him and frowned; the next moment she smiled. Miss Burton
(of the Evening
Observer) had a
keen sense of humour, which two years' association with the British
Press had not succeeded in destroying, and the appearance of the
man
was sufficient to tickle the most ultra-morose fancy. Polly thought
to herself that she had never seen any one so pale, so thin, with
such funny light-coloured hair, brushed very smoothly across the
top
of a very obviously bald crown. He looked so timid and nervous as
he
fidgeted incessantly with a piece of string; his long, lean, and
trembling fingers tying and untying it into knots of wonderful and
complicated proportions.Having
carefully studied every detail of the quaint personality Polly felt
more amiable."And
yet," she remarked kindly but authoritatively, "this
article, in an otherwise well-informed journal, will tell you that,
even within the last year, no fewer than six crimes have completely
baffled the police, and the perpetrators of them are still at
large.""Pardon
me," he said gently, "I never for a moment ventured to
suggest that there were no mysteries to the
police; I merely
remarked that there were none where intelligence was brought to
bear
upon the investigation of crime.""Not
even in the Fenchurch Street
mystery. I
suppose," she asked sarcastically."Least
of all in the so-called Fenchurch Street
mystery," he
replied quietly.Now
the Fenchurch Street mystery, as that extraordinary crime had
popularly been called, had puzzled—as Polly well knew—the brains
of every thinking man and woman for the last twelve months. It had
puzzled her not inconsiderably; she had been interested,
fascinated;
she had studied the case, formed her own theories, thought about it
all often and often, had even written one or two letters to the
Press
on the subject—suggesting, arguing, hinting at possibilities and
probabilities, adducing proofs which other amateur detectives were
equally ready to refute. The attitude of that timid man in the
corner, therefore, was peculiarly exasperating, and she retorted
with
sarcasm destined to completely annihilate her self-complacent
interlocutor."What
a pity it is, in that case, that you do not offer your priceless
services to our misguided though well-meaning police.""Isn't
it?" he replied with perfect good-humour. "Well, you know,
for one thing I doubt if they would accept them; and in the second
place my inclinations and my duty would—were I to become an active
member of the detective force—nearly always be in direct conflict.
As often as not my sympathies go to the criminal who is clever and
astute enough to lead our entire police force by the nose."I
don't know how much of the case you remember," he went on
quietly. "It certainly, at first, began even to puzzle me. On
the 12th of last December a woman, poorly dressed, but with an
unmistakable air of having seen better days, gave information at
Scotland Yard of the disappearance of her husband, William Kershaw,
of no occupation, and apparently of no fixed abode. She was
accompanied by a friend—a fat, oily-looking German—and between
them they told a tale which set the police immediately on the
move."It
appears that on the 10th of December, at about three o'clock in the
afternoon, Karl Müller, the German, called on his friend, William
Kershaw, for the purpose of collecting a small debt—some ten pounds
or so—which the latter owed him. On arriving at the squalid lodging
in Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square, he found William Kershaw in a
wild state of excitement, and his wife in tears. Müller attempted
to
state the object of his visit, but Kershaw, with wild gestures,
waved
him aside, and—in his own words—flabbergasted him by asking him
point-blank for another loan of two pounds, which sum, he declared,
would be the means of a speedy fortune for himself and the friend
who
would help him in his need."After
a quarter of an hour spent in obscure hints, Kershaw, finding the
cautious German obdurate, decided to let him into the secret plan,
which, he averred, would place thousands into their hands."Instinctively
Polly had put down her paper; the mild stranger, with his nervous
air
and timid, watery eyes, had a peculiar way of telling his tale,
which
somehow fascinated her."I
don't know," he resumed, "if you remember the story which
the German told to the police, and which was corroborated in every
detail by the wife or widow. Briefly it was this: Some thirty years
previously, Kershaw, then twenty years of age, and a medical
student
at one of the London hospitals, had a chum named Barker, with whom
he
roomed, together with another."The
latter, so it appears, brought home one evening a very considerable
sum of money, which he had won on the turf, and the following
morning
he was found murdered in his bed. Kershaw, fortunately for himself,
was able to prove a conclusive
alibi; he had spent
the night on duty at the hospital; as for Barker, he had
disappeared,
that is to say, as far as the police were concerned, but not as far
as the watchful eyes of his friend Kershaw were able to spy—at
least, so the latter said. Barker very cleverly contrived to get
away
out of the country, and, after sundry vicissitudes, finally settled
down at Vladivostok, in Eastern Siberia, where, under the assumed
name of Smethurst, he built up an enormous fortune by trading in
furs."Now,
mind you, every one knows Smethurst, the Siberian millionaire.
Kershaw's story that he had once been called Barker, and had
committed a murder thirty years ago, was never proved, was it? I am
merely telling you what Kershaw said to his friend the German and
to
his wife on that memorable afternoon of December the 10th."According
to him Smethurst had made one gigantic mistake in his clever
career—he had on four occasions written to his late friend, William
Kershaw. Two of these letters had no bearing on the case, since
they
were written more than twenty-five years ago, and Kershaw,
moreover,
had lost them—so he said—long ago. According to him, however, the
first of these letters was written when Smethurst, alias Barker,
had
spent all the money he had obtained from the crime, and found
himself
destitute in New York."Kershaw,
then in fairly prosperous circumstances, sent him a £10 note for
the
sake of old times. The second, when the tables had turned, and
Kershaw had begun to go downhill, Smethurst, as he then already
called himself, sent his whilom friend £50. After that, as Müller
gathered, Kershaw had made sundry demands on Smethurst's
ever-increasing purse, and had accompanied these demands by various
threats, which, considering the distant country in which the
millionaire lived, were worse than futile."But
now the climax had come, and Kershaw, after a final moment of
hesitation, handed over to his German friend the two last letters
purporting to have been written by Smethurst, and which, if you
remember, played such an important part in the mysterious story of
this extraordinary crime. I have a copy of both these letters
here,"
added the man in the corner, as he took out a piece of paper from a
very worn-out pocket-book, and, unfolding it very deliberately, he
began to read:—"'Sir,—Your
preposterous demands for money are wholly unwarrantable. I have
already helped you quite as much as you deserve. However, for the
sake of old times, and because you once helped me when I was in a
terrible difficulty, I am willing to once more let you impose upon
my
good nature. A friend of mine here, a Russian merchant, to whom I
have sold my business, starts in a few days for an extended tour to
many European and Asiatic ports in his yacht, and has invited me to
accompany him as far as England. Being tired of foreign parts, and
desirous of seeing the old country once again after thirty years'
absence, I have decided to accept his invitation. I don't know when
we may actually be in Europe, but I promise you that as soon as we
touch a suitable port I will write to you again, making an
appointment for you to see me in London. But remember that if your
demands are too preposterous I will not for a moment listen to
them,
and that I am the last man in the world to submit to persistent and
unwarrantable blackmail.'I
am, sir,
'Yours truly,
'Francis Smethurst.'"The
second letter was dated from Southampton," continued the old man
in the corner calmly, "and, curiously enough, was the only
letter which Kershaw professed to have received from Smethurst of
which he had kept the envelope, and which was dated. It was quite
brief," he added, referring once more to his piece of paper."'Dear
Sir,—Referring to my letter of a few weeks ago, I wish to inform
you that the
Tsarskoe Selo will
touch at Tilbury on Tuesday next, the 10th. I shall land there, and
immediately go up to London by the first train I can get. If you
like, you may meet me at Fenchurch Street Station, in the
first-class
waiting-room, in the late afternoon. Since I surmise that after
thirty years' absence my face may not be familiar to you, I may as
well tell you that you will recognize me by a heavy Astrakhan fur
coat, which I shall wear, together with a cap of the same. You may
then introduce yourself to me, and I will personally listen to what
you may have to say.'Yours
faithfully,
'Francis Smethurst.'"It
was this last letter which had caused William Kershaw's excitement
and his wife's tears. In the German's own words, he was walking up
and down the room like a wild beast, gesticulating wildly, and
muttering sundry exclamations. Mrs. Kershaw, however, was full of
apprehension. She mistrusted the man from foreign parts—who,
according to her husband's story, had already one crime upon his
conscience—who might, she feared, risk another, in order to be rid
of a dangerous enemy. Woman-like, she thought the scheme a
dishonourable one, for the law, she knew, is severe on the
blackmailer."The
assignation might be a cunning trap, in any case it was a curious
one; why, she argued, did not Smethurst elect to see Kershaw at his
hotel the following day? A thousand whys and wherefores made her
anxious, but the fat German had been won over by Kershaw's visions
of
untold gold, held tantalisingly before his eyes. He had lent the
necessary £2, with which his friend intended to tidy himself up a
bit before he went to meet his friend the millionaire. Half an hour
afterwards Kershaw had left his lodgings, and that was the last the
unfortunate woman saw of her husband, or Müller, the German, of his
friend."Anxiously
his wife waited that night, but he did not return; the next day she
seems to have spent in making purposeless and futile inquiries
about
the neighbourhood of Fenchurch Street; and on the 12th she went to
Scotland Yard, gave what particulars she knew, and placed in the
hands of the police the two letters written by Smethurst."
